Beyond Temptation
by April1
Summary: RT, AU: An unusual experiment forces Rory and Tristan to confront their feelings... for each other.
1. Chapter One

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Disclaimer: Don't own them. If I did, this would be an episode. 

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Author's Note: Have you picked yourselves up off the floor yet? Yes, I'm writing another fic and a chaptered one at that. Blame it on CMM's increasingly Tristan-like hotness on "One Tree Hill." Granted, this story won't be an epic, and the chapters might seem short when compared to some of my others, but I hope the content will help make up for it. I got this idea while listening to "Every Time" by Jessica Andrews, which incidentally also inspired "If Only…" So, take that however you will, LOL. And I know you're thinking you won't see Chapter Two for another year. Never fear, I've already started on it. ;)

****

What You Need to Know: I suppose this could be considered AU, because I've changed some things in the show to fit my Trory universe. There was never a Dean, nor a Jess. Tristan and Rory's kiss at Madeline's party, and everything thereafter, never happened. Now before you throw rotten vegetables at me, read on. A little fluffy, a little not, and everything else in between. I think (hope) you'll forgive me.

Calling the distinguished home a mansion was an understatement. It towered above her, dwarfing her in a rectangular shadow as it blocked the orange, glowing rim of the sun. All wrought iron fences and ornate stone columns, it was as ominous as it was grand. The lawn was immaculate, dozens of flower beds boasting blooms of every hue in the rainbow. She figured a hundred gardeners probably worked their fingers to the bone each day to perfect this presentation. Okay, that was more than likely an exaggeration, but it was difficult to imagine anyone even living there, let alone doing any form of manual labor. Dirt under the nails and other things considered.

She stepped over the weed-free walkway, careful not to damage the fragile pansies, fully expecting to hear a recorded "Stay off the grass!" if she treaded into the beds. The door loomed in front of her, chestnut oak with a brass knocker shaped vaguely like a lion. A sneering lion.

Wrinkling her nose, she tested the offending object with two fingers. It was much heavier than she had expected. She slid her whole hand around the knocker, lifted it and then let it drop once. It connected with a echoing thud, and she jumped back, startled. At least it wasn't calling her "Scrooge."

And she waited.

Nothing. It would be just like him to arrange to meet her and then not be home. She would _not _get a zero for this project.

She threw the knocker against the door. Twice.

Silence.

Hadn't these people heard of door bells? Finally she found it, hidden behind a prickly shrub, and rammed her fist against it, holding the pressure.

"Rory!"

The voice was coming from somewhere above her. She glanced up and saw Tristan's head poking out of a window upstairs, a pair of black headphones dangling loosely from his neck.

He lifted a casual hand in greeting, and she glared.

"Hang on, I'll be down in a sec." With that, he disappeared into the confines of the house. After what seemed like an hour, the door opened, and he appeared, still holding the Discman.

She arched an eyebrow. "What? No hired help?"

"Day off." He shrugged indifferently, his eyes shifting over her in a lazy, heated observance. Seemingly taking in nothing. Consuming everything.

It was peculiar seeing him out of his Chilton uniform, but his appearance was anything but. Broad shoulders clad in a navy, long-sleeved Abercrombie shirt. Lean waist and muscular thighs ensconced in a slightly clingy, slightly baggy, worn pair of jeans. And bare feet. Yeah, he was still indisputably, irritatingly attractive.

She'd never, ever own up to that statement. But it was too late, for he had already caught her staring, and he smirked in acknowledgement. "Are you going to come in, or do you want to stay out here and check me out?" 

Cheeks brightening in annoyed embarrassment, she cleared her throat as he leaned against the door to let her through. Purposely not giving her enough room, her shoulder brushed his chest as she skittered across the threshold, close enough for him to sense the fruity essence of her shampoo. She stood in the foyer, distracted, absently fiddling with the straps of her back pack. Looking everywhere but at him.

He was still holding the Discman, and in a desperate attempt to remove his attention from her, she took it from him, glancing at the CD inside. "Coldplay?

"Who were you expecting? Hilary Duff?" The laughter died in his throat when he noticed that tiny droplets of scarlet budded on the black plastic. "You're bleeding."

She tried to wrench her hand away but failed miserably. "Your fern is really a murderous cactus in disguise."

"Damn," he hissed. The tender flesh of her index finger was marred by a jagged cut, blood seeping out in minuscule beads. Wordlessly, he led her to the kitchen, sitting her down at the counter while he gathered rubbing alcohol and a Band-Aid.

He straddled the stool beside of her, taking her small hand in his larger one. "It's just a scratch." Even so, she winced as he dabbed at her finger with some gauze which had been soaked in alcohol.

"Stings, huh?"

"No."

"Right." He cradled her hand, palm up and began to blow lightly on the wound, his lips inches from her skin. A flood of shivers danced over her spine, and her hand quaked slightly with them. His head was lowered, face downcast, but his eyes crinkled, and she knew he felt it. He circled the Band-Aid around her finger and smoothed it in place.

He was still holding her hand, his fingers gently closed around hers, their thumbs interlocked. She was so close, just a mere two steps away, yet it might as well have been miles. Their palms brushed, a simple caress of skin. Innocent to the casual eye, but to him, it burned. Like a glowing flame, lapping at his ankles and melting the hard exterior of the wall he had so deliberately built. And like fire, this forbidden feeling could destroy and hurt. Make him feel pain. Yanking his hand away, he broke the contact, tossing the gauze and bandage wrapper in the trash. But it was too late, and he had lingered for far too long. The five seconds were all it took. The heat, the mind-numbing attraction… he had felt them all. 

They were unbearably stronger than ever. And unlike fire, he was left wanting more. So much more than she could ever want to give him.

Back still to her, he motioned for her to follow as he exited the kitchen. He was halfway up the winding, endless staircase when she finally caught up with him, huffing each breath. "Where are we going?" 

"My room." He was leaning languidly on the banister, not in the least bit winded. "Does that bother you?" His eyes twinkled suggestively.

She scoffed in disdain. "Why would that bother me?"

"Oh, I could think of several reasons."

Groaning, she waited until he turned before sticking out her tongue and stumbling the rest of the way up the stairs.

*****

His room was remarkably neat, save a pair of black boxers crumpled in one corner. He dropped them in the hamper, shooting her a devilish look. "Now you know."

"And I could've sworn you wore panties."

"Touché." Collapsing on the bed, he patted the dark blue comforter, prompting her to join him. She did so, perching uneasily there, fully aware that this was where he slept every night. Probably in various states of undress.

Pulling out the sheet of questions assigned to them by their Psychology teacher, she scanned it in disbelief for the millionth time. A study of relationships, of all things. And to be paired with Tristan… God, help her. "Describe your first kiss."

He grinned in satisfaction, reminiscing. "Alexandra Whitmore in fourth grade, behind the jungle gym. Man, she was hot, even then."

She scribbled his answer, eager to move on from this subject as soon as possible. "Wow, I'm surprised your first sexual experience wasn't in the hospital nursery."

"Nah, I was too absorbed with my own body then." A brief, agonizing pause. "Your turn."

"What?"

"Your first kiss."

"Next question." She propelled her pencil repeatedly into the holes of her spiral notebook, not daring even a glance at him.

"You have to answer."

"Make something up."

"You've never been kissed, have you?"

She avoided the question. "Hate to break it to you, but you're no Michael Vartan."

"Well, I've never been into Drew, but Jennifer Garner, on the other hand…"

"Okay, the next question is "Describe your first date." 

"I'm not finished." 

"Unfortunately," she retorted, wanting to run away. Take the zero. Fail Chilton. Join a convent. 

"You've never kissed a guy." He was beyond curious, because, hell, she just fascinated him.

"I figured the answer was obvious by now," she snapped.

"Why?"

"This isn't part of the assignment."

"That's not why I'm asking."

She timidly picked at a stray thread buried in the thick cream carpet, brimming with uncertainty. "No one has wanted to." Why was she telling _him _this?

"That doesn't mean they don't think about it."

She glowered at him. "And you're the authority on this subject." Sarcastic.

"You'd be surprised."

"Then enlighten me."

He had moved closer to her on the bed now, hand edging its way toward hers. "Remember your first day at Chilton when I offered you my notes?"

She nodded, wanting to remember how to forget.

"I thought about it."

She ducked her head, hair falling in a protective curtain around her face.

"And every other day since…" A husky pause. 

"What?" It was a small sigh.

"I've wanted to." He had long ago lost count of how many times. 

"You're not serious."

"Deadly."

"We can't."

"I can."

"I don't have to do this," she protested weakly, knowing she had already given in.

"You don't, but you will." A devastating smile, dripping with confidence. "Here's our chance to prove each other wrong."

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter Two

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Disclaimer: Again, don't own them.

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Author's Note: To all who reviewed, your opinions were very heart-warming and greatly appreciated. Thank you so much for taking the time to share your thoughts with me.

I'm all for slow build-ups, as witnessed in some of my other fics, but like I said before, this isn't going to be an epic. Much like "If Only…," the characters are forced to obey my every whim. *slightly evil chuckle* If you didn't have a problem with that fic, you probably won't mind this one. Remember, it is an AU, and Rory isn't quite as oblivious as she was on the show. Plus, who am I to deny the two kids a little lovin'? ;)

*****

"How do you know I won't?"

"You can't resist me."

"Care to bet?"

"You'll lose."

"Twenty bucks."

"Only twenty? Not very confident, are you?"

"Fine. Fifty."

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I'm not."

"And I haven't even kissed you yet."

"Take it or leave it."

"It's irrelevant."

"Your arrogance has ceased to amaze."

"Your stubbornness is such an exasperating obstacle."

"The bet stands, and you don't tell a soul."

"A date, and I show everyone."

"What could you possibly show them?"

"Us."

"Us?"

"Yes."

"There is no _us. _There's a you, and there's a me."

"Soon to be joined."

"Separate now."

"For about five minutes. More or less."

"Definitely more."

"Right. Foreplay is key."

"Prolonged agony."

"You haven't felt pure pleasure."

"I have."

"Not initiated by me."

"One of life's many virtues."

"Then you haven't lived."

"I hate you."

"I dare you."

"Accepted."

And he had every intention of showing her how truly wrong she was. 

His fingertips gracefully trailed a path across her right jawbone and stilled there, but the lack of movement was lost on her for his eyes, stormy with attraction and gentle with precise care, had now resumed the caress. The warmth of it swept over her full lips, lingering there a moment too long for the motion to be accidental. 

She glanced up at him through lowered lashes and was surprised to see that his pupils were rather dilated, tumultuous black surrounded by a tiny rim of cobalt blue. Flecks of gold, too, she mused, shimmering and sinking in the sea. Herself reflected. Almost beautiful. To him, completely. 

His own cheeks were tinged a light pink, making his tan skin appear smooth as silk. It was the closest she had ever seen Tristan DuGrey come to a blush. The beginning of a tingle tugged at her stomach. Startling.

"You don't wear much make-up, do you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, a bit insulted. "No, I've never really cared for it." God, he was probably comparing her to his endless string of girlfriends who looked like Picasso had had a field day with their faces.

His fingers danced over soft porcelain. "You don't need it." Every nuance of her skin was highlighted, nothing to mask any imperfection. And to him, there were none. "I like this tiny mole." His thumb tenderly grazed her right cheek.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, cautiously curious. "Most people don't even see it."

His reply was a husky whisper. "I told you before, Rory. I notice you."

The tingle in her stomach became a dozen wild butterflies. Indisputable and still fighting.

His forefinger tilted her chin up so her gaze was directly joined with his, and she lost all ability to breathe. She had never read many romance novels, her tastes tended toward the classics, but once she had "borrowed" one of her mother's. The cover boasted the usual image of a sparsely clad woman wrapped in the embrace of a shirtless hero, while the pages waxed poetic about the two lovers' simmering passion. She had always secretly wondered what it would feel like to have a guy look at _her _in _that _way. Any guy. Well, she had to wonder no longer. And when the source was an extraordinarily handsome, albeit annoyingly confident, guy, the results were paralyzing.

It was as if he were desperately trying to commit her every feature to memory in fear of never being in such close proximity to her again. While his eyes never left hers, serving as their only stream of contact, it was still akin to sampling a delicate, expensive wine as he drank her in. Savoring the taste. She felt entirely exposed to him and realized that didn't bother her in the slightest. But, unconsciously, she bit her lip, aware that she was fully out of her element. She had no doubt he was very experienced in these matters. Her fear and apprehension were beginning to outweigh her instincts.

He saw her shrink back, the barest movement of her head ducking away from his touch. "It's okay." Hushed, rhythmic, lulling. His free hand smoothed the material of her khakis, as his lips curved into a slow smile meant to placate and ease. "Let me kiss you, Rory."

God, help her, but for some inexplicable reason, she trusted him. Yes, she was scared half out of her mind, but she trusted him. And this trust, one in the million other feelings bouncing off the walls of Tristan's bedroom, was a very powerful thing. "Could I stop you?" she quipped wryly. Futile question. His darkening eyes had already given her the undeniable answer.

A deep chuckle. "Not a chance." The quintessential smirk.

Blushing, she was fiddling nervously with her fingers. Unsure what to do, she kept them tucked in her lap, hoping he hadn't sensed her insecurity. Resisting the impulse to close her eyes, she locked them onto his once more and remained motionless. Watching him. This was just fine, for he preferred to be in control. He was accustomed to it. Even now, when it seemed his heart would beat right out of his chest. However, this sensation was all too unfamiliar. Rory Gilmore meant something to him, and he wasn't exactly sure how to deal with that revelation. 

Except to act on it.

His jean clad knee brushed her own as he scooted closer to her on the bed. If the array of goose bumps peppering her flesh were any indication, there might as well have not been any material daring to separate them. Her neck arched slightly to the left at the gentle tug of his finger under her chin, the simple touch sending her stomach spinning. His attention flitted from her eyes to her lips and then back, as his face dipped toward her own. It was only when she felt the lenient pressure of his mouth against hers did she allow her eyelids to flutter closed.

His lips brushed hers. Once. Twice. Each time more delicately than the last. Feather light. And he wrestled with the urge to take more. He won, for now.

Only a matter of seconds had passed, and he was pulling away from her. His absence leaving her lips cold, amid fields of flushed, heated skin. She blinked rapidly, dazed, and once the fog cleared, was immediately treated to a glimpse of his satisfied smirk. Her throat was dry, the syllables cracking harshly in her ears. "That…." A squeak. "Was nice."

He laughed, thoroughly amused. "If you react that way to a simple kiss, we could be here a while." At their current pace, this intriguing experiment could go on for quite some time. Brilliant.

If he could live that long.

"Wasn't that it?" A beat. "You're done."

He merely stared at her before shaking his head once, from side to side. Almost as an afterthought, he rubbed his lips together, the taste of strawberry gloss and pure Rory lingering much longer than he had anticipated.

"Oh," she managed dryly, her pulse thumping madly at the thought that he might kiss her again.

And how he wanted to. Needed to. He hadn't expected this either. He had known, of course, that he had always been drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. The moth would either be scalded from the heat or the fire would die as quickly as it had formed. There was no chance in hell of that happening here, for this went above and beyond the simple laws of attraction. For her, it was a risk he was willing to take.

Dimly, she was aware of a growing numbness in her hands. She had twisted her fingers into pretzels, and now red blotches had broken out across her skin as a result of the tightness. His own hands moved to the pale blue collar of her shirt as his thumb and forefinger deftly worked at the button, slipping the round obstruction from its confines. Her eyes shot up to his, her mouth suddenly agape.

He winked at her, deliberately teasing. "Relax. I'm not trying to seduce you." He expertly undid the second button. "Yet."

"What _are _you trying to do?" she demanded quietly.

"Help you relax." His answer was immediate and nonchalant as he removed the clip holding back the sides of her hair, causing the silky wisps to cascade around her face.

Help her _relax_? If he only knew, and chances were he probably did, his very touch was having the extremely opposite effect.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, opening her face to him. Uninhibited. "Close your eyes."

She did so, surrendering to his request, her lean fingers forming a perfect circle around his wrist. The rapid throbbing of the blood roaring triple time through his veins astounded her. It was a quick, jerking motion, and she could've sworn she felt it skip a beat as his lips swept over the dimple in her cheek.

And, only for an instant, she felt him hesitate. Heard his sharp intake of air, as she leaned into him, her nose brushing his. Centimeters, then mere millimeters, separated them. His every breath fluttered her hair, a brush of cinnamon and unadulterated male. Her free hand crept around his neck, fingers threading through his spiky strands. She had figured he used copious amounts of gel to achieve such perfection, but the golden locks were baby soft.

He opened his eyes then, and they melted into hers. "For someone new to this, you're very, very good." It was a low, guttural growl deep in his throat as her fingers in his hair sent him dangerously close to the precipice. He wanted to lose himself in her, hear her murmur his name. 

"I'm not doing anything." As she spoke, her lips drifted intimately nearer.

And her innocence made him want to protect, to cherish. God, he cared. "You have no idea." 

Throwing every bit of caution and rationality remaining to the wind, his mouth melded with hers. She gasped as the tip of his tongue flicked against her bottom lip, and he paused, knowing she would need to control the pace. As much as he ached not to take each and every bit of her into him. Her lips parted slightly, unknowingly, and he needed no further encouragement. Leisurely, methodically, he embraced it, exploring the deep, magnificent recesses of her. Giving her anything and everything in him.

She hadn't thought it was possible to actually feel on fire. Trembles wracked her body with every wondrous touch as his hands cupped her waist, easing her back onto the bed. This glorious assault was foreign and familiar, realizing she recognized his need for what it was. Knowing that buried deep inside, she felt it, too. She responded in kind, reveling in his accelerated heart beat, the fervor of it coursing through her own blood.

So strong, yet so gentle. The weight of him covered every inch of her, his spicy cologne and a luscious scent, uniquely him, dousing her entire being. Any other guy probably would have taken advantage of their precarious position, and his hands _were _everywhere, but only in those places made available to him. They stroked tenderly through her hair, making her scalp tingle. On her face, thumbs treasuring her cheek bones, captivated. Guiding her when she was lost. Respecting her always. 

And she was swiftly falling.

Simple to let go. To let him take her to that special place, soon to be solely theirs. No consequences, no mistakes. Only each other in existence. Full blown desire meeting an implausible sweetness. 

The complexity of feelings being explored. Some welcome, others overwhelming. Drowning but never smothering. Hearts awakening. For every second that passed, she wished for a minute to take its place. 

For him, the absence of time all together would be a blessing.

Never too fast, but almost too far. Achingly knowing if he didn't pull away now, in another thirty seconds he never would. The contact slipped gradually between them, and as if the diminutive separation was unbearable, his mouth lingered tantalizingly against her bottom lip before giving away to empty space.

"Still hating?"

"Forgetting." Breathlessly so.

He hovered above her, anchored with his left elbow bearing down into the comforter, his right fingers tracing a heavenly pattern across her jaw and coming to a stop at her flushed, now thoroughly spent, lips. Their eyes met, a jolting soul to soul gaze. Neither smiled, utterly lost in the other.

He only stared at her. Mesmerized. Forever unwavering. 

Even if she had been a frozen glacier in Antarctica, the sheer passion of it would have melted her. Never once did his eyes break from hers, telling her with no words. Searching and asking all in a single, never ending glance. She watched as a range of emotions played out in him, his face stoic, revealing nothing and everything. It felt as if she were being kissed all over again.

Slowly, as if pulled by an invisible string which he wished would break, he stood, offering a hand to help her sit up on the bed. She took it, lacing her fingers through his. She reached up to try and smooth her tangled hair, but in a movement almost innate, he did it for her. Standing in the space between her knees, he tucked the chocolate strands behind her ears, bending down to press his lips against her forehead. Remaining that way, his face resting against hers, she wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling the muscles in his back shudder under the cover of his thin shirt. The only sound was their still labored breathing.

Finally, he spoke. "If you say that was just nice…" His voice was hoarse, shaky. Affected.

"I don't know what that was." It took extreme effort for her to even form each word.

"We'll have to talk about it."

"I know. But not right now." At that moment, they were both content to just be.

Minutes passing, they held each other, his eyes drifting closed as she rested her head against his chest, lulled by its rise and fall. It was hypnotizing. A whisper. His. _You're beautiful._ A tighter embrace.

Anchoring and falling. Deeper and deeper.

The grandfather clock rudely struck the hour. Her gaze shot to the glaring red numbers turning over on the face of his bedside alarm. 6:00 P.M. Time did exist.

Reluctantly, she began to remove herself from their pleasant tangle of limbs. "Tristan, I have to go," she said quietly, apologetically.

"I say you don't," he joked roughly, wishing it were true.

"I do." Standing, she began to gather her things, papers slipping out of her fumbling hands. He stooped to help her, shoving the sheets into her bag. She zipped it up, tugging the straps over her shoulders.

He ran a hand through his unusually messy hair, knowing he shouldn't keep her from leaving. There would be time. Later. "I'll see you."

She was halfway out the door, when suddenly, she stopped. Her back still to him, she expressed the simple words that brought his heart to his knees. "Tristan." She glanced over her shoulder. "I never did. Hate you, I mean." Her eyes told him so even as she mouthed the words.

"I think you made that pretty obvious." She took a few steps, their gazes still locked, before exiting the room and jogging down the opulent staircase. 

She hurried to her car, an early graduation gift from her grandparents, which was parked in the top arch of the circular driveway. Even as she pushed the button to activate the keyless entry and opened the door, she couldn't resist a final look back towards the house. The window of his bedroom, which overlooked the front lawn, shone yellow, a tall shadow disappearing from view, the small gap in the curtain sliding back into place.

She knew she would have to break every speeding law imaginable to make it to her grandparents' home for dinner by the designated time. She had a lot of things to sort out, and she couldn't prolong them any more. Already, there was an emptiness in her stomach. An unbearable hunger. 

And there was only one person who could satiate her.

__

To be continued…


	3. Chapter Three

**__**

Disclaimer: Don't own them.

****

Author's Note: In keeping with the spirit of Halloween, here's a treat. And, I promise, no tricks. ;) To those of you who felt I rushed the last chapter, my apologies. Remember, though, that this *is* an Alternant Universe fic, and it is mainly pure fluff. Therefore, the characters' actions can be taken out of context. It's short, sweet and to the point. Rory and Tristan couldn't have kept their hands off each other for much longer, anyway. ;)

As always, many thank you's to all who reviewed. Feedback is a fan fiction writer's pay.

She sat tensely on the front steps of her house, waiting for him. The wooden splinters picked at the material of her jeans as she shifted position, propping her elbows on her knees and closing her eyes against the chilly breeze. She took a deep, but still not calming, breath, the bitter sweetness of wood smoke stinging her lungs. Even in late October one of the neighbors had already built a fire. That was Connecticut weather for you. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.

The sky was overcast, no rays of bright sunshine breaking the blanket of grey. The dying leaves of auburn, chestnut, ginger, and burnt sienna were the only vibrant colors as they tumbled from skeletal limbs. They had been gathered into heaps around the lawn, yet to be bagged and tossed away, and the whispering wind taunted their hard work by twisting at the tops of the tiny mountains, cutting them in half. The newly freed leaves performed a hypnotic dance, swirling among Babette's gnomes and bumping into the small statues. Her mind exhausted, she was entranced by these simple occurrences, relieved that they could pose some form of a distraction from the obvious.

Grey limbs. All knobby and bare. Grey sky. Blank and unknowing. 

Unaware. Very much unlike her.

The harsh slam of a car door echoed from the street, but she didn't turn her head. She didn't have to. Shoes scuffled on stone, one step after another before the movement stopped, inches from her. Through the grey fog, she gazed upward.

And there was blue. 

A deep, oceanic hue not common in nature. Delicately piercing and penetrating as it slowly leaked into her, rivers of it languidly floating over her frame and filling her not with icy cold, but pure undulating warmth. 

"Hey, Rory." The last syllable ended on a up note, an unspoken question. Curious as to why she had asked him to meet her and afraid to voice his suspicions in actual words for speaking might make them true.

Her own carefully prepared speech drifted into nothingness. He was clad in khakis and a navy shirt, the open collar offering a view of the lightly tanned skin at the base of his throat. His hands were casually shoved in his pockets as he gazed down at her, left jaw alternately clenching and releasing. Eyes never leaving hers.

He now knew the true definition of chemistry. Not those silly, frustrating equations consisting of oxygen and hydrogen. Though, at the moment, he was certainly lacking the former. No, it was a gut-wrenching want, always needing to be closer. To hold, to touch. To just be with her and only her. This feeling was unusual for him but persistent, and he was willing. More than willing.

She stood to greet him, hastily brushing imaginary dirt from her jeans. Her hair, somewhat tangled from the gusts of wind, brushed against her face, cheeks as flushed as fresh strawberries dipped in whipped cream. Her beauty continued to dazzle, never ceasing to stop his heart.

He hadn't known it was possible for someone to make him fall just by simply existing. 

"Hi." She rocked back and forth, from the tips of her toes to her heels, incapable of remaining in one spot.

"So…" He raised an eyebrow, entertained by her antics. "What's up?"

"We need to talk."

"Cue the ominous music."

With an exasperated roll of her eyes, she motioned for him to follow her, leading him to the backyard. Here they could have some semblance of privacy without the whole town of Stars Hollow driving by, necks craning for the tiniest bit of gossip.

This action didn't go unnoticed by him, and he lowered his voice in an exaggerated whisper. "Are we having a romantic interlude?" She flushed scarlet. "Well, that tells me we are." He sauntered over to her, head bent close to her ear as if he were going to unveil an earth shattering secret. "I'm not used to hard ground and bits of dried leaves, but I can adjust. Of course, you'll be the one in closest proximity to those elements." He grinned, a stunning combination of white teeth and sparkling sapphire. "Hey, are your neighbors home?"

"No, why?"

"I don't think they would appreciate their lovely, innocent Rory Gilmore hooking up with a strange, yet stunningly handsome, guy in the middle of her backyard." A beat. "Are you sure that gnome isn't sporting the latest in surveillance equipment?"

"You're paranoid."

"It's staring at me." A rough chuckle. "See, even furry garden creatures find me attractive."

"They're inanimate objects. They can't help themselves."

"Homosexual gnomes." Now he was humming the theme from "Smurfs," punctuating each "la" with a gentle poke in her shoulder.

"Don't develop a sudden fascination with blue paint, okay?"

"Not even little white hats?"

"Not even the pants."

He feigned a gasp. "Then they'd be naked!"

"Better them than you."

"Oh, but they wouldn't be as detailed."

"I'll rely on an Anatomy text, thanks." She crossed and uncrossed her arms, finally letting them hang limply at her sides like they were two dead weights. Her mouth felt like cotton and sandpaper, a softness mingled with a rough longing. A thirst that only he could quench. It frightened the hell out of her. She searched for something, anything to break the dizzying silence. "Tristan… I don't want things to be different between us."

He chuckled, almost sarcastically. "Things have always been different between us, Rory." Then suddenly serious. "It's just that you've never stopped to question why. Until now."

"You kissed me," she pointed out, unnecessarily.

"Two times. Soon to be three."

She either didn't hear him or pretended to ignore that declaration delivered with such confidence and sincerity. "The only reason you kissed me was to soothe your ever growing ego… to know you were the first." It was a weak and pitiful protest. Even as she spoke those words, she knew they weren't true.

"I didn't need a reason then, and I certainly don't need one now." Ever closer.

She bit her lip, anxiously, the habitual action killing him. She didn't miss the darkening intensity clouding his eyes and felt every nerve ending spark in response. "I never expected to feel this way… about you."

"You surprised me, too." There were still underlying tones of awe.

"When you kissed me, it should have felt wrong." 

"And, yet, nothing has felt more right."

"You'll regret it."

"Only that I didn't do it sooner."

"I…" Her voiced wavered, cracking into a thousand sensitively shattered pieces. "Can't."

"God, Rory, why do you keep making excuses?" He was exasperated, wanting nothing more at this point than to devour her until she was completely senseless. 

"I don't know!" She flung her hands in the air, frustrated. Frustrated at him and the way he made her feel. Hopelessly wanting him. "Why did you do it, Tristan?"

He merely raised his eyebrows, his calm infuriating her to boiling.

"You said you didn't need a reason. Well, there's always a reason." Damn, she was stubborn.

"I found myself thinking of you. A lot. More than I should have been. I had to do something to see… to know if I was right about us."

"And?" Her heart quivered.

"I was." An evocative glance, savoring the beginning of her tiny smile. "But, if I accomplished nothing else, at least I know from now on you'll compare every guy you lock lips with to me," he quipped, self-assured.

"Ha!" She glared playful daggers at him, wanting to hate but forgetting how, shoving him lightly.

He took an unaffected step backwards, hands raised in mock surrender. "They'll never measure up," he added coolly, confident smirk making its presence known.

She did push him with all the strength she could muster then, and he stumbled, but not before grasping her hand in his as they both plummeted into a lonely pile of crimson and russet. In an expert, seemingly effortless move, he flipped them over so he was now lying on top of her, his hand coming to rest at her waist. Her sweater had ridden up her small frame, baring an expanse of her stomach as his thumb came into contact with the milky skin of her hip. Her eyes widened, dark innocence, as his own gaze wrenched to this unexplored territory. 

And in a move that shocked even him, he curled his fingers around the soft wool, pulling the sweater back down over her jeans. His eyes meet hers again, stunning with their suppressed hunger, liquefying her. "The problem is, I don't like to share." 

"I could kiss another guy tomorrow, you know."

"Yeah, but you won't."

"You don't think so, huh?" Affectionately teasing.

"Because you like me."

"Too much," was her heart-stopping addendum. 

He treated her to a delicate nibbling at the hollow of her neck, and she purred in contentment. She lifted her hand to his face, the supple pads of her fingers exploring his striking features. Eyelashes so long and dark they would make any girl jealous, as they fluttered half-closed over those beautiful, expressive irises. High cheekbones curving like chiseled stone. Full lips that had so quickly shown her how to fall. Coiling her arm around his neck, she brought his face to hers, raising her own to meet his, mouth treasuring those precious eyes. He stifled a moan, but still she heard it. "Is this killing you?" She giggled, almost triumphantly, thrilled she was the one who made him feel this way.

His cheek caressed hers with each breath. "I'm already dead," he muttered with effort. 

"Then is it my turn?"

"For what?"

"To show you what I've learned."

"Please do."

"It sounds like you're begging."

"And you're teasing."

"I don't tease." Even as her lithe hands skimmed over the back of his neck, fingers threading through gold, lightly tickling his skin.

"That…" His grip tightened around her waist, lifting her hips closer to his. "Is teasing."

"Oh," she breathed. Her lips brushed over his nose. "If it bothers you I can stop."

"Don't." His whisper was husky and deep. Deeper than it had ever been. Sensual.

He cushioned her neck in the crook of his free arm, as she guided his face towards hers. This time, she wasn't scared.

Her mouth closed over his, a mere brush of butterfly wings, and it appeared that she would simply pull away. Then he felt the gentle, tiny pull as her teeth tugged at his bottom lip. His widened eyes met her own, and flustered, she ducked away. "Sorry." She was chewing on her own lip again, apprehensive.

If she only knew what that simple gesture did to him. He had always been in control, always smooth. Always immune. Now, he was very close to losing it. When she blinked quickly, smiling almost shyly, he did. "Trust me." He dusted a kiss over the corner of her mouth. "That was okay."

"It didn't hurt?"

"Like hell…"

"Oh! I'm sorry."

"Not in the way you're thinking."

"Oh…" 

He chuckled softly at her admission of wonderment. "You seem surprised."

"I… just… never knew _I_ could do that… to anyone."

"Everyone can."

"Really?" She inquired, her expression relatively indignant.

"But not to me." His lips danced over her right cheek, no feature ignored. "Just you."

She melted into him, feeling his heart skip a beat against hers. "Me." She relished it, his words rolling over and over in her mind. "There have been so many girls in your life, Tristan…"

"Yes." His mouth delicately sampled hers now. One soft, fleeting caress. And another, firmer, a second longer. "But, now there's only you."

A diminutive noise of pleasure escaped her throat. "I believe you." It would be impossible not to do so.

"Well, if there was ever any doubt…" His lips captured hers, and she opened herself to him, surrendering completely. Deliberately and unhurried, he tasted her, his tongue skimming against hers as he felt her respond in kind. She was so sweet, so perfect. So his.

If the rest of the world knew what he was capable of, this glorious assault would be illegal. God, he was a good kisser. Exceptional, even. Not that she had anyone to compare him to, but she knew. It felt as if it were the first time all over again, from the tingling in her hands to the disoriented haze clouding her head. 

But, this time it was different. He knew her and what made her feel. Every touch, every movement of his lips was skillfully adapted to her. His well of need for her would never run dry. 

And he was rewarded as she whimpered into his mouth, her hands clutching his sweater. He easily and gradually increased the pressure, turning the quiet embrace into a tender devouring. Never taking too much, but giving everything. It was a dueling waltz, and he lost all feeling of where he ended and she began. Lifting him up and above. Far, far away from reality.

Where was he? A flash of dark hair. The familiar scent of vanilla and apples, with a dash of cinnamon.

Rory. He was _kissing Rory._

And he fell. For the hundredth time in the span of two days.

The feverish pace eased, his tongue grazing the tip of hers as his lips curved against her own. 

__

He was smiling. 

And still he kissed her, reverently savoring. From a frantic release to a beautiful seduction. Only he could execute this transition and make it feel so right.

To her dismay he eventually pulled away, but he wanted nothing more at that moment than to drink her in. His ragged breathing increased ten-fold at the look in her eyes as they sparkled with feeling. Her cheeks glowed a rosy red, her lips chapped and swollen. He cocked his head slightly, studying her. Not arrogantly so. Not this time.

It felt as if she were the only one in the world to him as his intense gaze burned into her. His eyes lingered over every feature as if he were cataloging them off one by one. As if he were seeing her for the first time.

"What?" She giggled, surprised that she didn't feel self-conscious.

His eye contact was steady and untiring. "You're pretty."

He wasn't grinning or smirking, and she couldn't determine if was serious. "I have dead leaves in my hair." The stem of one dangled in the corner of her eye.

He did smirk then, his lips sliding into the familiar curve that she didn't hate quite so much anymore. "Okay, dirty…" She slapped his shoulder playfully. "But still pretty."

She colored a vague shade of pink. "You have grass stains on your pants."

He could have cared less. "A small price to pay for this…"

Another inevitable kiss. Seconds, then minutes passed. "How long are we going to…" Her voice was muffled against his mouth.

"Forever." He nibbled her bottom lip.

"Oh, um…" Now he was showing his appreciation for the graceful arc of her collarbone. "In the span of forever we'll both be shriveled."

She felt the bob of his head as he laughed against her shoulder. "Trying to ruin the moment, are you?"

"No, but for my mother or Luke to find us sprawled in the yard…"

"Point taken." He paused, as if considering a dire alternative. "Then, until I get tired."

"And that would be when?"

"Never." His tongue flicked over the hollow of her throat, and she moaned. "Besides, I don't think you mind."

"I do if your body is scattered in a million different pieces."

"The horror."

Her hands gripped his waist, unconsciously slipping under the material of his sweater. Once she recognized the firm muscles of his back, her fingers slid up his spine. "We couldn't do this…" She placed a kiss at the base of his neck, breathing in the spicy scent of his aftershave.

"Finally, a fate worse than death."

She lost count of how many times he kissed her then, her body responding in ways she never knew possible. Overpowering but never frightening. He pressed his lips to her forehead as she whispered into his ear. "Pure pleasure, huh?" She teased, echoing his words from the day before.

"Well, not quite… His eyes skimmed what they could of her body, as he was still lying on top of her. "You still have a few things to learn."

"And who could I ever find to teach me?" She questioned nonchalantly, faking an expression of extreme consternation.

"No idea." He smirked, pretending to be truly puzzled.

Her hand cupped his cheek as her thumb caressed the strong line of his jaw. "I was hoping it would be you."

"Naturally." 

"Good." She smiled, almost boldly.

"I mean, who else would be so worthy?"

She poked gently at his chest. "Now who's ruining the moment?"

"There'll be more moments." He played with a silky strand of her hair, running it through his fingers before tenderly tucking it behind the curve of her ear.

"I know." She took his hand in her own, bringing it to her lips and kissing each knuckle individually. Her eyes never left his. "And I'm glad."

Sky blue darkened to a fiery sapphire at her touch. "Are you…" A breathless gasp. "Ready for that lesson now? 'Cause, you know… I'm free," he tantalized, cocky smirk mingling with a hopeful grin.

"Not now." A sweet, heart-felt smile. "But maybe sometime.

"Maybe?"

"Yes."

"Just a maybe?" It was mischievous goading.

"Okay, more than a maybe," she conceded.

"Soon, then?" He grinned devilishly.

"I don't know when." She paused, her eyes searching his. "If you can wait…"

"For you?" A heavy, self-mocking sigh. He would wait forever. "I'll manage. As long as there's plenty…" His lips met hers, falling into perfect unison. "Of that."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."


	4. Chapter Four

**__**

Disclaimer: Don't own them.

****

Author's Note: Well, CabbagesnKings was right in her assumption that Chapter Three was supposed to be the end of this story. Those three chapters were all I had planned, but then a sudden burst of inspiration hit me. Now, a piece that was supposed to be short and sweet has developed into a fic that will ultimately end up being the longest I have ever written. That's not saying much, considering my longest fic is merely five chapters, but whatever.

To all who reviewed, your thoughts are always extremely appreciated, and I'm so grateful that you take the time to share them with me. If I had the ability to clone Chad, you'd all get a copy. ;) I hope you'll stick with me for the duration, as this fic has definitely taken a turn away from the fluffy side. Hugs to you all!

*****

We all begin with good intent   
Love was raw and young   
We believed that we could change ourselves   
The past could be undone   
But we carry on our backs the burden

Time always reveals   
The lonely light of morning   
the wound that would not heal   
it's the bitter taste of losing everything   
that I have held so dear. 

  
- Sarah McLachlan, "Fallen"

*****

The late, Sunday evening sun winked in her window as it was slowly distinguished behind the bare arms of the trees, giving way to the faint orange of dusk. Night was beginning to arrive early now, swallowing up the light of day and surrendering to the frosty stillness that was winter twilight. The shadows grew longer, bathing her room in alternating patterns of gold and the blackest grey, transforming everything familiar into a world of anonymity. And that was how she, herself, had at first felt in Chilton's hallowed halls.

She had been the new girl. The one everyone gossiped about but never wanted to meet. The eyes of the girls had flitted over her, assessing the possible competition before declaring her as harmless and casting her aside with disdainful sniffs and triumphant glares. The guys hadn't noticed her at all. Except one.

The one who had kissed her.

Absently, her fingers drifted to her lips, touching the flesh he had felt. Her mouth, still tender and aching, as if waiting to be reclaimed. It was no longer just hers.

__

He had _kissed her._ Countless times. Sweet and passionate. Gentle and smoldering.

Her stomach flipped at the mere thought of him. Rory Gilmore was giddy. She had _never _been giddy.

She had expected her first kiss to be a sloppy mess of lips and awkward tongues, not the smooth, precise seduction she had experienced only two days ago. A seduction. How peculiar, really, that she was using the particular word which implied a more deeper connection, one that involved touching, removing, and becoming. And…

Even though she was alone, she could feel herself flush an unflattering shade of tomato red. She shouldn't be thinking about _those _sorts of things.

But he had that affect on her.

She perched on her bed, with hands tucked in the narrow space between her crossed legs. The cordless phone rested in front of her, and she eyed it warily. Heaving a weary sigh, she reached for the dark blue Chilton directory and hurriedly flipped through its pages to the "D" section. Finger trailing over the standard, block typeset, she scanned the page.

__

Davis…

__

Donovan…

DuGrey, Tristan… 655-1212

She jerked her hand away, as if it had been burned by simply touching his name. Her sweaty finger had left a moist indentation on the paper, somewhat smudging the ink, but his phone number was still readable. No excuses.

She grabbed the phone and stared at it, her thumb hovering over the six as the dial tone buzzed furiously at her. The numbers emitted a greenish-yellow glow, turning her pale skin almost translucent. Ghost-like.

She pressed the six. The resulting beep seemed a hundred times louder than it really was. 

The two fives. If the device had a tongue it surely would have blown a raspberry at her.

"Coward," she muttered, uptight. It was only Tristan.

It was never _only _Tristan.

"If you would like to make a call…." Tinny and distant. The operator.

__

She clicked the off button. "Nope, I don't want to make a call."

Mesmerizing azure eyes, a tender caress, feverish kisses. 

She threw the phone down, and it bounced once on the bed, skidding to a stop precariously close to the edge. "I'm not calling him."

Feelings and the confusing sensation of missing him. The need to hear his voice was overwhelming. "I. Won't." Even as she uttered that pitiful declaration, she crawled over and retrieved the phone, dialing the string of digits.

It rang once. She could picture the harsh echo in the massive home, servants scampering to answer.

Twice.

No one was home. Right. Nodding, she inched the receiver away from her ear. The ringing grew quieter.

"DuGrey residence."

Her eyes widened as she brought the phone back closer to her.

"Hello?" The voice was haughty with a strong accent, distinctly British. It brought to mind images of a wiry mustache, a hooked nose, and eyes glaring over the top of bifocals. 

"Um, hello?" She choked, squeaking out the last word.

"Can I help you?"

Yes, this person would be right at home in an English castle, surrounded by impenetrable fog, as they opened their door to wayward travelers. Complete with an evil gleam in their eye and a smarmy grin. "May I speak to Tristan, please?"

"Miss Victoria?"

__

Victoria?

"He isn't here, miss, but I will relay your previous message to him when he returns."

"Um, no. This is Rory. Gilmore."

"Oh. Well, Miss Gilmore, I will tell him you called."

"Thank -" The line went dead. "- you."

The phone felt as if it weighed fifty pounds, and she let it fall from her limp hand.

__

Victoria…

The name swirled around in her head as she fought with her natural curiosity. She didn't recognize it as being someone from Chilton, but then again, she wasn't exactly part of Tristan's circle of friends. She could pass this girl in the hall everyday and still not know what position she held in his life.

If at all. This Victoria was probably just a friend. Nothing more. She wasn't the jealous type, and this was not something to worry over.

But it was not until later that she remembered the stiffly formal way the speaker had addressed her.

*****

How she adored the musky smell of books, their yellowing pages possessing incredible mystery and knowledge. It was one of the many allures of a library, and Chilton's was no exception. She often liked to arrive at the school early, usually an hour before the final bell, to examine the towering stacks in peace. Not many of the students would dare be seen on campus, outside of class, for fear of being referred to as geeky, but she didn't care. To many, the deathly silence would be almost tomb-like, but to her it was comforting. A sanctuary.

Clutching her Styrofoam cup of coffee, she gingerly sipped the steaming liquid through the hole in the lid, careful not to burn the tip of her tongue. She had done so, many times before, usually when she was absorbed in an interesting chapter of her latest novel. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and she didn't want to repeat it. She weaved through shelves upon massive shelves, her free hand skimming over spines, rising and falling as the ridges decreased and then increased. Finding a particular subject fascinating, she placed her cup on the edge of the shelf and slid two books from their confines. She tucked one under her arm and began to scrutinize the other, bracing the back of it protectively with one hand.

"What could you possibly find so interesting?"

She whirled around, nearly knocking the coffee over on the carpet in her haste. Tristan was standing behind her, clad in the Chilton uniform, and only he had the poise to wear it like Armani. His arms were crossed casually over his broad chest as he regarded her intently, eyes once again deliberately appraising her figure, before finally meeting hers. "Besides me, of course," he added as his mouth curled into a cross between a perilous grin and a teasing smirk.

"Meet your competition." She held up the book, flashing the title.

"Italian Art, huh?" He started to reach for the text, but she held it just out of his reach. "Any nudes?" His voice had lowered, shifting to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Oh, nothing you'd care about." She shrugged indifferently, for she had recently discovered the tremendous fun in goading him.

"How so?" He was frowning now.

She pretended to be completely enamored by a painting. "Well… they're actually quite detailed, really."

"Let me see."

"Oh… but, they're not women." She blinked innocently, fighting back a fit of the giggles at his annoyed huff.

"Give me that." His expression was indignant as he took the book from her, and she collapsed into laughter.

The painting she had found so enthralling was a watercolor of the Tuscan landscape. "Very clever, Rory." He glared at her as he shoved the book back into the stacks.

"You're… so… gullible," she managed as her body shuddered with amusement. "I didn't know you swing both ways," she kidded.

He shot her a look. "I don't think I could have done certain _things _to you if I was anything other than straight." He smiled in victory when she flushed. One to one.

He took a step closer to her, eyes darkening with suppressed need, and she shifted nervously. He always had a way of turning the conversation around so that he was completely in control, forcing her to succumb to her nerves. She tugged at the hem of her plaid skirt, searching for a witty retort but coming up empty. Well, now would be as good a time as any to approach the subject which had kept her awake most of the previous night. "Tristan, I need to ask you…"

One hand cupped her cheek, while the other curved around her back. "It's been over twenty-four hours." He brushed her silky hair away from her neck as he nipped at her delicate skin, which was now extremely sensitive to his touch. She arched into him, her hips bumping against his. 

"I know, but…"

He trailed a path up to her lips, suspended above them, each breath mingling with hers. "Talk later." And his mouth crushed hers. She was addictive, and kissing her was like a drug. He couldn't get enough, and the withdrawal symptoms nearly killed him.

She resisted, but only for an instant, as words unspoken caught in her throat. They dangled there before being swallowed, long forgotten. His tongue battled with hers as he explored the deep essence of her. They were both losing the fight. 

He was kissing her as if it was for the last time, and she responded, her hands creeping around his waist as they curled up under his blazer, spanning his back. The book under her arm tumbled to the floor, narrowly missing his knee which was firmly ensconced between her legs.

An excruciating pause for a breathless gasp.

"Tristan." His name reverberated against his mouth.

His hand fisted in her jacket, pulling her ever closer to him. "Rory," he whispered back, gently mocking.

And he kissed her again, his tongue sliding over her bottom lip, tracing the curves. She was pressed against the shelf, the hard metal creasing into her lower back. "Not here…"

He sampled the dimple in her chin. "My car?"

"Too cramped."

"The locker room?"

"Too smelly."

"Then here will have to do." His lips brushed her cheek, nose, and finally lingered between her creased brows.

__

Victoria, Victoria. Ask him about Victoria. Her tiny inner voice sung the mantra, like a CD track on repeat. "Listen, I…"

He silenced her easily and efficiently.

Neither of them noticed the library door as it swung over the black and white tiled floor, closing with a soft click.

*****

Lunch period was half over as Rory finished up in the bathroom, gathering her things. She had just slid back the lock and opened the stall door a crack when she heard it.

"Oh, my god, you are _not _going to believe _what _I saw in the library this morning." The girl had a high, flirty voice, even when not in the presence of a male. Familiar.

"Books?" Her friend quipped.

"Liz, shut up." She paused, as if wanting to prolong the suspense.

"Then stop stalling, Summer."

__

Summer. One of Tristan's ex-girlfriends. Not that that was surprising. Chilton was practically crawling with them.

"Tristan…" A throaty chuckle. "And Rory Gilmore."

The subject of their conversation gasped, almost inaudibly, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. Her breathing was shallow and rapid as she tried to control it, praying they wouldn't discover her. 

"So?"

"So, they were all over each other. Right in the middle of the library."

"Wow, she isn't exactly his type." Rory could almost see 'Liz' wrinkle her nose.

Summer snorted her agreement. "Oh, you should have seen her face, though! I'm betting another week and she gives it up to him."

Rory glared fire through the chipped blue paint of the stall door.

"Tristan will be pleased." Liz giggled cattily.

"Sure, he loves the chase, but once he wins, it's over for him. It's a game."

"Poor, little Rory Gilmore." Her voice didn't display even an ounce of pity.

"Consider it a lesson learned."

"That leaves him free for you again, huh?"

"Been there, done _that_," Summer replied coolly. 

"You should still invite him to your Christmas party. A casual hook-up never hurt anyone."

"Yeah, but something tells me he'll be otherwise indisposed."

"Certainly not with Gilmore."

"Please, Liz, she isn't even _that _pretty. No, the word is that Vicky has asked him to spend holiday break with her… at her parents' place in the Hamptons."

"I knew she wanted him back!"

"And we all know he's _far _from over her."

Their footsteps faded as the bathroom door closed swiftly behind them.

Rory slumped against the side wall of the stall, the metal toilet paper holder roughly cutting into her hip. Compared to the absolute humiliation she was experiencing, the pain was almost welcome.

__

Vicky… Victoria.

She was so _stupid. _The rational part of her mind begged her to question Summer's claims and brush them off as petty jealousy. But she knew Tristan. Had known all along about his reputation as a player. She didn't want to believe he had been using her, until someone better came along… this Victoria. Someone with whom she could probably never compare.

He cared about her. She knew he did. He couldn't touch or kiss her with such passion if he didn't…

But he had plenty of practice, and she was obviously just a convenient pawn.

And she had still fallen. Hard.

Anger flooded through her like a tidal wave, drowning and smothering her. She had been foolish. She _knew _better! Flinging open the door of the stall, she walked over to the sink, gripping its sturdy edges for fear of a sudden collapse. The face blinking back at her in the mirror couldn't possibly be her own. Blotchy skin and glassy eyes.

It hurt so much.

It shouldn't have - they weren't even dating. They weren't a couple. They just were…

Nothing.

She felt the prickling in her eyes, the vicious tingling in her nose…

She would _not _cry. Not over _him._ Even as salty tears beaded on the tips of her lashes. Unbidden. She was such a _girl._

Turning on the tap, she cupped her hands under the streaming liquid as it spurted from a partially clogged faucet. She splashed her face with icy cold and tore off a brown, industrial paper towel, rubbing her cheeks dry. She wished to go home, pull on her flannel pajamas, forget everything. 

While always remembering one face. 

*****

She shoved her history text into an empty space in her locker, and the books reacted to the brutality by cascading like dominos, nearly crushing her fingers. Wincing, she straightened the cumbersome volumes, stacking them neatly. Three more classes to go, one of which she shared with him. Bending over, she tucked her thick Psychology notebook into her bag, unconsciously recalling their experiment of that day…

__

No. No, no, no. She wouldn't think of him.

"Hey."

Too late.

"Rory?" The way he said her name, as if it weren't at all simple. As if she meant something to him. Never again.

She didn't respond.

He bent his head, as if to place a feather-light kiss on her cheek, but with an expert tilt, her hair fell forward in a protective curtain. Successfully blocking his touch. 

"Are you okay?" She jerked her head, agitated, and he caught a glimpse of damp skin. "Have you been crying?"

"Leave me alone," she gritted out, warningly.

He didn't seem to take the hint. Or he didn't want to. "That's not how you felt this morning." He grinned, wanting to make her laugh.

She slowly raised her eyes to his, and what he saw there stunned him. Broken, absent of that alluring sparkle. "I can't do this. I _won't _do this." She spoke mechanically, like she had rehearsed this speech over and over until it was ingrained in her mind.

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

"It's over, Tristan."

"What?" He was incredulous and still smiling faintly. He had no idea.

"And I'm beginning to doubt if there was _ever _anything there." She turned back to her bag, fiddling with the zipper.

He jerked it from her grasp, forcing her attention to him. "What the hell is _wrong_?" He tried to lower his voice, aware that people were beginning to stare as they walked by, but his emotions and confusion were overflowing.

"You."

"Oh, now that's original."

__

Just ask him. Ask him, and it'll all be over. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "I suddenly realized I can't stand you."

He scoffed derisively. "It's a known fact that I've always annoyed the shit out of you."

"Then stay away from me."

"Right."

"Don't talk to me, don't touch me, and certainly don't… kiss me." Her breath hitched on the last two words, and she kicked herself inwardly.

"Even now, standing there, you want me to." Husky, with irritation this time.

"The only thing I want is to take it all back." A heated pause, mingling with hoarse confusion. "Everything."

"Liar," he hissed simply.

"Well, that's yet another thing I learned from my _teacher_." She threw out the last word bitterly, smacking him in the face with it. Her hand would have inflicted less pain. She whirled on her heel, desperately fighting to keep her spine straight, confident.

"Damn it, Rory…"

His plea wasn't lost on her, but she willed herself to keep walking towards her next class, her back forever to him. The final bell rang, and she quickened her already blistering pace. Now, she was also late. As she skidded to a halt at the door of her room, she risked a solitary glance over her shoulder, wondering if he would still be standing there. Did he even care that much?

The hall was deserted.

*****

For the remainder of the day, and the week, he made no attempt to approach her, nor she to him, of course. As a result, it should have been relatively easy to ignore him, to pretend he didn't exist. 

If it weren't for his eyes always on her, searing into her very core. In their classes, during lunch, even from across the sea of heads, and in the courtyard. She didn't have to see him to know he was watching her. Always. She could feel it.

She didn't dare meet his gaze. Unbeknownst to her, if she had, she might have discovered the answers to the taunting questions which haunted her dreams every night.

But she never looked. 

__

*****

A thunderstorm in late fall. An odd and terrible way to end an even worse week.

The wipers whistled furiously across the windshield, the scream of rubber against glass barely heard above the tumultuous pounding of rain as it tumbled out of the thrashing, angry sky. The water poured over the roof of her car, streaming in waves down the windows, creating a shield of peppering drops as they raced each other across the glass. She shifted uneasily in her seat, her trembling fingers automatically tightening the belt, eager for its safety and comfort. Bleary-eyed, she stared apprehensively out the front windshield as she carefully maneuvered the vehicle around the misty curves of the deserted road. Beams of gold flashed pitifully against black and yellow asphalt, unable to shatter the haze of rain that shimmered like a dangerous mirage.

Suddenly, she felt claustrophobic. Wanting to kick herself for her poor decision-making, she knew she should have accepted Emily's offer to spend the night in Hartford. When originally approached with the idea, she had protested, her mind occupied by the hours of studying and homework she would have to complete before Monday morning. Lorelai had a conference at the inn over the weekend, so she would be spending the night there, leaving Rory to her own defenses. She had welcomed the opportunity to spend a quiet evening at home, buried in her textbooks, but now she wondered if she would even arrive there in one piece.

The rain continued to hammer relentlessly against the car, and she swiped at the window with her hand as lightening struck viscously through the black night, briefly illuminating the vacant surroundings. She was driving at a snail's pace, her fingers gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline as she struggled to keep the vehicle on the road to the dismay of the howling, vengeful wind. The tires spun weakly against the rivers of water, clinging to any form of friction that remained.

Lightening flashed again, a ribbon of jagged white, and the earth shuddered under the resounding crack of thunder. She slowed down even more so, her head shifting to the right as she peered out the passenger side window. In the inky darkness, it was practically impossible to distinguish the rather large shadow from the rest of the landscape as it rested at a standstill on the side of the road. Black on black, solid edges blending into the fluidity of the rain. Lightening erupted like a strobe, providing a brief glimpse of the black BMW which appeared lost in the crushing storm…

And all too familiar.

She sought frantically for a sign… any sign that this wasn't the same car. It couldn't be… Not his. But she was only met by a barrage of images, which told her that her original assumption was no mistake.

She had pulled even with the sports car now, idling the ignition and switching on the emergency flashers. The darkness was suffocating, blocking out every sign of possible life. "No… no…"

Another flash of blinding, searing light. A young man slumped across the driver's seat, unmoving, lifeless.

"Oh, God."

__

To be continued…


	5. Chapter Five

**_Disclaimer: _**_Still don't own them._

**_Author's Note: _**_Kudos to anyone who actually remembers this fic. I know it has been a **really **(definitely an emphasis on "really") long time since I updated, but here you go. Honestly, I have no idea when I'll get to the next part. Life keeps me constantly on the go these days, but we'll see. _

Without thinking, without breathing, she shoved open the door of the car and stumbled out into the lake that the road had quickly become. The wind whistled and shook around her, blowing the door back as it smacked into her arm. Pain erupted in her wrist, and she fought back helpless tears. Whether they were tears from the pain of from fear, she didn't stop to question. In a matter of seconds, she was drenched, the gale forces tearing at her clothes and hair. Every step was equal to a struggle through quicksand. She couldn't see, couldn't feel.

Numbness.

She gripped the door handle of the BMW, not allowing herself to breathe a small sigh of relief. The shiny finish was unblemished, no indication that there had been any collision. She paused, suddenly afraid to see what was hidden behind the tinted windows, terrified of what she might find. Wanting nothing more than to open the door and for him to smile at her. To be irritating, to tease, to smirk. She didn't care, as long as he was capable of doing those things.

Warm blood rushed over her fingers. His life. _Must stop… Have to save…_

She blinked and saw only streams of rain, clear in the blackness. Realizing precious seconds could have been wasted, she squeezed the silver handle, thanking God when the door easily popped open. The bitter scent of alcohol, mingling with new leather, washed over her, stinging her eyes. She knelt down, angling herself so she could see inside the car.

He was indeed there, head lolling loosely against the back of the seat, eyes closed. His normally sun-kissed face was washed pale… too pale. Her soaked hair fell forward over her shoulder as she bent next to him, the water droplets glistening like pearls as they tumbled onto his porcelain skin.

"Tristan, please…"

She felt the sour bile rise in her throat, worry gripping her, as she reached out with a trembling hand, gingerly brushing her knuckles across his cheek. He was warm. She placed two fingers in the hollow of his throat, just below the jaw line. His pulse was steady. To her, the pounding rhythm of it was a comfort.

His light blue, button-down shirt and khakis were free of any blood, save some liquid substance that looked a bit like vomit. He had obviously drunken himself into a stupor and passed out. She had to give him credit for having enough sense to pull off the road. She clutched her cell phone, her nails bearing into her palm, surely leaving marks. With a frantic jerk of her head, she shook the heavy, sopping layers of hair from her eyes and flipped the phone open. Water poured over the tiny device, and she swiped at the screen, swallowing a curse as the empty charge bar winked at her. Absolutely worthless.

She scrambled over to the passenger side of the car and threw the door open, her left shoe sinking ankle deep into a puddle of mire. The mud emitted a squelching burp as she freed her foot, splattering grainy dots along the curve of her calf muscle. Losing her balance, she fell, grasping for the inside door handle. Her fingers slid around it, and she flung herself inside the car, blocking them from the elements. Hands skimming the roof, she searched for the overhead light among all the other tiny buttons and gadgets. Finally finding it, she flicked it on, blinking against the glaring harshness. Once the dazzling black and red spots had cleared, she glanced over at Tristan once more. He was still unconscious, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Hoping to discover his cell phone, she tugged the glove compartment open. Nothing except a couple CD's and a crumpled piece of notebook paper. Unfolding it revealed seven digits scrawled in swirling, purple ink. A phone number. Figures. Rolling her eyes, she tossed the paper back into the depths of the compartment and thumped it closed with her fist.

Hastily, she checked the side pockets of his pants, her knee banging against the gear shift. Empty. That left his back pocket.

Well, this could prove to be an awkward situation.

She gently pushed against his broad shoulder so he was lying slightly on his side, right hip turned upward. He was quite heavy, tall and muscular. Apprehensively, her fingers slowly slid into the tight pocket, landing on an object that felt vaguely like a cell phone. Biting her lip, she knew she was blushing for the thin material of his khakis did nothing to conceal the firmness of his physique. For the first time, she was actually thankful he was completely inebriated. He surely would have taken great pleasure in her discomfort.

This cell phone was as effective as its predecessor. No signal. It fell like a dead weight, landing with a clunk as it was caught by a cup holder. If her judgments were correct, they were closer to Stars Hollow than Hartford, and the torrential downpour showed no signs of easing in the immediate future. Suddenly aware that the waterlogged material of her skirt was clinging to her legs, she winced. The pristine leather seat was just as drenched as she was. She shifted her feet, peering down at the floor mat. A streak of mud, undeniably from her torrid battle with the Black Lagoon, minus the creature, was smeared across the gray carpet. It was already hardening into orangey-red shards.

"Sorry," she muttered, to no one in particular.

Shivering, she contemplated starting the car so the heat would warm the interior, but if the low gas gauge was any indication, there wasn't much left. She found Tristan's jacket in the backseat and draped it over her arms. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she sat with her back against the window, enveloped in the light spicy scent of his cologne.

She felt completely alone, yet surrounded by familiarity. Unnerving and comforting. Not quite sure what to do, she found herself focusing on the steady up and down movement of his breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Was he dreaming? Of who? Her?

Or Victoria…

It had been days of avoidance, of questions unanswered. She had almost forgotten what it was like to be in such close proximity to him.

_Liar._

Remembering him was all she was capable of. Pretending to ignore his presence but knowing that he was always there. Somewhere.

Unbeknownst to her, while their habitual world of playful banter and irritating teasing had ceased to exist over the endless week, his intense observations of her had carried on. Wanting to forget but needing to remember. Wanting to fight it and give in all at the same time. The fight had won. He would not weaken, for _she_ had turned her back on _him._ No explanation given.

He wanted her, needed her.

And now he would do without her.

Stubbornness can be a bitch.

And their game had become a lonely one. The players had resigned.

As the rain continued to fall silently outside, she watched him, inexplicably unable to tear her eyes away from the young man who suddenly resembled a vulnerable little boy in so many ways. Her lips were chapped, rubbing roughly against each other as she moved them slightly, trying to form the words rushing through her head. Her mind was exhausted, clogged with a lack of sleep. Tired of keeping up the seemingly never-ending charade of not caring.

She focused on his closed eyelids, long, thick lashes, imagining the brilliant, heart-stopping blue.

"Tristan…" Her voice croaked on the last syllable. She swallowed, desperately trying to moisten her dry throat. "I'm sorry." She sank deeper within his jacket, as if hiding would make her confessions easier to take. For her. "I'm sorry… not for getting mud in your car… Well, for that, too. But I'm sorry. Sorry for not talking to you when I needed to." Her voice grew quieter with every admission. "I'm sorry for not asking you about… her. I should have. I know that. I was just angry. I still am. But I couldn't let you see that it bothered me… couldn't let you know…" She squeezed her hand into a fist. "That it hurt me. And even after everything…"

Merely a whisper caressing the air.

"I still miss you."

It appeared that Rory Gilmore was only on the injured list.

-&-

"Hey, my house shrunk."

"This is my house." She rolled her eyes, annoyed with the need to explain the minutest detail to him as if he were a five year old. Albeit a five year old who had discovered mommy and daddy's liquor cabinet.

"Your house."

"Last time I checked, yes."

"And you…" He pointed at her with an exaggerated jerk. "Brought me here because…" His finger was now directed inward towards his chest, as if he felt the need to remind her who was who in this ridiculous situation.

"Because I didn't want your death tormenting my conscience for the rest of my life. I'm obviously insane."

He pouted, crossing his arms pitifully in front of his chest. "Take me home. My home."

She didn't respond.

"Then I'll drive." He made a lurching attempt to grab the car keys from her, but she skillfully dodged him. His hand hit nothing but air, and he crashed to the ground, the rough, grainy concrete of the walkway rushing up to greet him. It slashed through his paints, scraping the tender skin of his knee, and he laid there, head buried in his arms. "Shit." Wishing he were dead. How pathetic and humiliating. "Hello, walkway. Meet dumbass."

She stooped down, taking his hand in hers and tugging fruitlessly. "Come…" A heaving grunt. "On." The skies had opened once again, pouring currents of water and washing away the tiny stream of blood that seeped between the ripped strings of his khakis. Even the weather mocked him.

He stood slowly, grimacing at the burning sting in his knee, and was suddenly aware of her slender fingers curled around his. Eyes shifting to hers, he averted them just as quickly for he couldn't stand to see her sympathy. Couldn't bear to even see her. She wasn't holding his hand tightly, not even close, but he shook it loose anyway.

She was frustrated, aggravated, and completely ready to kill him. When the rain had finally let up, she had managed to get Tristan out of the BMW and into her car, with the least amount of help from him. This precarious maneuver had consisted of her pulling, Tristan dragging, a lot of water, and helpless protests about abandoning his "baby." She had assured him the "baby" wouldn't drown, but she was precariously close to committing murder by drowning _him _if he didn't cooperate.

After arriving in Stars Hollow in triple the normal amount of time, she had wearily stopped the car in front of the Gilmore home, yet another fine sheet of glittering mist greeting them. Now, they continued their previous struggle, his arm looped around her neck and hers gripped his waist like a vise, fingers grasping at the soaked cotton of his shirt.

"Le' go. I can…" He swayed frightfully close to the drainage ditch. "Do it myself."

A yellow glow cut through the night, beaming through a space in the frilly curtains draped across Babette's kitchen window. The material moved back slightly from a sudden movement, and Rory knew that the tiny woman had seen everything. "Tristan, shut up," she hissed, her voice caught between a whisper and scream.

"Make me," he taunted, not even attempting to soften his tones.

She did let go of him then, shoving him in the direction of the porch railing, as she walked up the steps. She felt him move up behind her, and she shifted uneasily, fully aware that his penetrating gaze was locked on her. It seemed like the distance between them had lessened dramatically. She watched his mouth open then snap closed, as if he had wanted to speak but thought better of it. Frowning, she pushed the wet tendrils of hair out of her eyes, squinting against the mist. The fuzzy glow made him appear as if he were surrounded by a ring of light, ambiguous in every way. "What?"

He turned away from her, his body rigid. This was too complicated. Too many things to say and no words to say them. His voice was dry, still slurred. "Nothin'. Nothin' at all."

She whispered a vague "fine," and he watched her turn, shoving her key into the lock. When he didn't move to follow her, she shot a look over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"

He raised his face to the sky as the water peppered down. A night spent catching pneumonia or a night spent with Rory? No contest. There had never been one. He was coherent enough to recognize _that_.

As she shifted position to allow him access to her home, his forearm brushed hers, a caress of emotion unspent. Startled, her luminous sapphire eyes met his, their lashes beaded with crystal droplets. And he knew then that he had been wrong before. This…

This was everything.

-&-

"Here." She handed him a fluffy, pristinely white towel. "You can dry off." He looked from her, to the towel, to the vomit stains on his pants, and back again.

"I needa shower."

"Oh, right." She wrung the towel into a twisted rope. "Well…" She stared at the floor, noticing the droplets of blood which decorated the cream carpet around his right foot. "Your knee."

"Stay." She ran to the bathroom, retrieving the first-aid kit always kept on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. When she returned, she pointed from Tristan to the couch. "Sit." He did so, at first slouching against the back, then raising himself up again, leaving a dark wet spot where his head had been. His leg jiggled to an imaginary tune only he could hear in his head.

"Don't move." She curled her fingers around the edge of his pant leg, gingerly pushing it up his sculpted calf. The fine hairs there brushed her knuckles, and she sucked in her breath. His leg danced up and down again, and she cupped one hand behind his knee to steady it as her other hand finished rolling the pants over the smooth crest of his kneecap.

After soaking a piece of gauze with rubbing alcohol, she held it over his torn flesh. She glanced up at him, seeing that his eyes were closed. "This might sting a little."

The minute the alcohol came in contact with the wound, he emitted a mournful howl.

"Or a lot."

"Stop." He batted her hand away.

She continued dabbing at the cut. "I have to clean it. Otherwise, it could get infected."

"Le' it fall off," he protested, eerily like a young child trying desperately to escape a visit to the doctor.

She clucked her tongue twice. "Then what would the girls think?"

"'Snot my leg they're interested in." Somehow, he managed a wimpy leer.

"I'm going to have to use a little more alcohol."

"You just wanna torture me."

"If I wanted to torture you, I'd let you sit here and develop gangrene." He eyed the freshly saturated gauze despairingly. "Think about something else."

He was silent as she finished cleaning his knee and bandaged it with more gauze. "Done."

As she stood, he leaned forward to inspect her handiwork. Seemingly satisfied, his eyes met hers, hazy with the residue of alcohol in his system… and something else. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She rocked back and forth on her heels, an action he had come to identify as a nervous habit.

"Dontcha wanna know what I was thinkin' about?

"I'll pass."

"You know that fuzzy sweater you wore last week?"

"Maybe it would be better if you don't talk."

"I was thinkin' about you in it." A deliberate, pregnant pause. "And out of it."

"Don't think, either."

-&-

"Damn." He struggled with his shirt, the holes suddenly too small for the buttons to easily slip through. His fingers felt swollen, fumbling, and Rory was staring at him as if he had sprouted two heads. "Stop looking at me," he growled, turning his back to her.

She bit her lip, a giggle bubbling in her throat. "Do you want me to help?"

"No!"

"Such a big boy."

A mumble, distinctly foul in intent.

"Do you think you'll be ready in a couple hours?"

A shearing rip, cloth tearing.

"Tristan, turn around."

He did so, shirt clenched in his fists, cheeks tinged pink with annoyance. Wordlessly, she stepped in front of him, taking the top button between her fingers. Freeing it from its confines, she focused on the next one, methodically working her way down his shirt. She could feel his stare curving over every inch of her face, but she didn't dare acknowledge it. Instead, she ducked her head, presenting him with a curtain of brunette tresses.

A moment later, she had finished with the last button but neither moved. Water dripped from the faucet in the sink, a leak that had yet to be fixed. Pings of liquid hitting metal and a gurgling drain were the only sounds in the uncomfortable stillness of the bathroom.

Her eyes were fixated near the center of his torso, as if she were looking through him, but still absorbing the way his abdominal muscles responded to each intake of air, the thin wife-beater concealing little. He cleared his throat, so close she could feel the vibrations, and her gaze ricocheted upward, locking with his. A squeak of a gasp escaped, her body weaving slightly, knees weak, disobeying her.

She had to stop this. Now.

Gingerly, she brought her fingertips to his chest, the sensory pads colliding with the ribbed material of the wife-beater. Hesitating a millisecond that felt like hours, she let her palms fall forward, resting the entirety of her hands against him. Slowly, she smoothed her hands up and over his broad, bare shoulders, drawing the now unbuttoned shirt away from them. He automatically lifted his arms, taut biceps stretched with the movement, allowing her to completely remove the soiled material.

She gathered the shirt in both hands, scrunching it into a wrinkled ball, trying to avoid their image in the mirror. Resistance was futile, however, and she saw his reflection there. Long torso, khakis slung low on his slim hips, with only a leather belt to hold them up. Saw his hand alternately clench and unclench, as he raised it, even with her shoulder. Saw two of his fingers gingerly envelope a strand of her hair, now unhurriedly drying in messy clumps, clinging to her neck. He played with it for a moment, combing a knot out with those ever curious fingers. She winced at her own reflection, not feeling very attractive. Not knowing why that even mattered anymore.

Blue met unyielding blue, and her knees threatened to give away altogether. His intensity was smoldering, but when he blinked, it was anger she saw. Angry, tired disappointment. He had never looked at her in this manner, and it made her ache. Ache with the knowledge that she had done this to him. She could only blame herself.

"You're soaked." As if just noticing her for the first time that night.

Not expecting him to speak, she jumped backward, nearly tripping over the towel hamper.

"Change. You're gonna get sick." Short and to the point. Clipped, brisk, distant. He shrugged off the wife-beater, removed the belt from his pants.

Hastily, she averted her gaze. "Leave your boxers on. Just give me your clothes, and I'll throw them in the washing machine."

"Maybe I don' wear boxers."

"I saw them in your room, but leave whatever it is on."

"It's nothin'."

"What?" Of their own accord, her eyes skipped over his Calvin Klein boxer-clad frame, his smug expression causing her blood to boil.

"Made ya look."

She pushed against his shoulder, shoving him up and over the base of the tub, drawing the rose opaque shower curtain around him. She heard him turn on the water, the faucet squeaking roughly. "There's a spare toothbrush in the cabinet." She bent over, gathering his discarded clothes.

"Uh, oh."

"What now?"

"Can't take a shower in my boxers."

She heaved a sigh. "Why not? You're already in there."

"I'll chafe."

"Fine." She thrust her hand through the tiny opening between the curtain and the wall of the tub, fully expecting him to remove the boxers and give them to her. Instead, he exited from the other end, the boxers already halfway down one hip. "Tristan, wait…" She closed her eyes, as a wet clump of cotton landed on her head. "Oh, God."

She removed the bizarre headdress, one hand covering her eyes.

"You can look now."

Not trusting him, she peered through the crack between her middle and forefingers. She could hear him humming, back in the shower.

"I can't believe you didn't sneak a peek." He sounded dumbfounded, almost wounded.

She remained silent, wringing out the boxers over the sink.

"You still there?"

"Yes."

"I'm not usin' this flowery, herbal stuff to wash my hair."

"Well, you're in a household of flowery girls."

He stuck his head around the shower curtain, hair sticking up in wet spikes. "Dontcha have anything a little more manly? Ya know… for when the urge calls and company comes to visit."

She turned to him with a completely innocent expression. "Glue."

His eyes widened, bloodshot horror. "Oh, right. I love flowers."

She wanted nothing more than to leave the bathroom, or preferably the country, but not before sneaking her hand into the gap of the shower curtain and grasping the faucet. She gave it a jerk all the way to the right, turning the icy cold water on full force. Almost slipping on the damp tile, she ran from room, slamming the door behind her.

The solid wood did nothing to cushion his blood-curdling scream.

She opened the door a crack, speaking through the opening. "Bet you wish you had those boxers now."

"You. Are…"

She cut off his threat with a swift twist of the knob, closing the door. "So very good."

Now it was her turn to smirk.

-&-

After having changed into a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, she tossed her own clothes and Tristan's into the washing machine. He still hadn't emerged from the bathroom, so she busied herself by opening a can of chicken soup and heating it on the stove.

She heard the knob turn, and the door opened a crack, a shaft of light beaming over the floor. "Rory…"

"Everything okay?"

"If you even think about laughing…"

"What?"

He was wearing a robe, hers. The one with the coffee mugs and doughnuts. Dancing.

She thrust open one of the cabinets, hiding her shaking shoulders behind the door, stomach aching with the effort needed to withhold her amusement.

"I couldn't find anything else…" He tugged at the hem, but it barely reached his knees.

Giggles flooded through her like a tidal wave. "Camera." She gasped for breath, feigning searching through drawers.

"You die." He glared at her, arms crossed over his chest, obviously trying to project a force of extreme authority but failing miserably. Maybe if the doughnuts weren't grinning and wearing red bows.

"Soup?" She chirped, setting a bowl on the table, along with some crackers and a glass of ginger ale. He pulled out a chair and slumped down in it, still glowering.

"Do you think you can keep it down?"

"Don't know."

"Try." She nudged a spoon towards him, resisting the urge to tuck a napkin in under his chin. This thought initiated another round of laughter.

"Stop it."

"Sorry." She slid into the chair across from him, fiddling with the leftover crumbs dotting the placemat. Silverware clanked as he ate his soup, crackers crunching.

"Tristan…"

What?" He didn't look at her, seemingly consumed by capturing a wayward noodle with his spoon.

"Why did you do this to yourself?"

He shrugged.

"Because it just seems like so much fun." She retorted sarcastically.

"Oh, yeah. Tons. I plan to market the idea officially at Disney World."

"Well, at least you can form a complete, coherent sentence now."

"Ice water directly on your privates has that effect."

"Sorry," she repeated.

"Whatever."

"This isn't the first time, is it?"

"The ice water? Hell, yeah."

"No, I mean, the drinking."

He crumbled a cracker up in what was left of the broth. "I've had beers at parties before, if that's what you're asking. But I'd control it. This was the first time I've been completely drunk off my ass."

"Why?"

"You're just full of questions, aren't you?"

She ducked her head, hooking her feet around the legs of the chair. "You don't have to answer."

He smashed the soggy crackers with his spoon, avoiding the question momentarily. He heard her nearly inaudible sigh, her fingers tapping against the linoleum surface of the table. "I just wanted to forget."

"Oh." She didn't have to ask what he wanted to forget. She knew. "Did it work?"

His eyes locked with hers for merely an instant. "No." He lifted the glass of ginger ale to his lips, taking a sip and effectively shielding his expression.

Without even glancing at her, he stood and carried his dishes over to the sink. She stared after him, wanting to say something, to explain. "Tristan, we need to --."

She was interrupted by the rudely ringing phone, and she lurched for it. "Hello? Hi, Mom. No, everything's fine."

Tristan was rinsing the dishes, not trying to be at all quiet.

"What? I'm just loading the dishwasher." She pressed a finger to her lips, but he ignored her. "No, we've always had one." Intently aware that he had finished up at the sink and was now watching her curiously, she presented him with her back. After several more exchanges with her mother, she clicked the phone off, and turned around to face a deserted kitchen. "Tristan?"

"Nice room, by the way."

She careened around the corner of her bedroom, finding him collapsed on her bed, the sheet already pulled up over his waist. "No, no, no! You absolutely cannot sleep in here."

He propped up on one elbow, tugging on Colonel Clucker's beak. "Too late." He pointed to the discarded robe, carelessly slung over the back of her desk chair.

She ran her hands through her hair, feeling her face flush a florescent tomato red. "You're naked."

"Very." He shifted slightly, and the sheet drifted down, revealing the contours of a bare hip.

"This is my bed."

"No kidding."

She threw the comforter over him, but he immediately flipped it off. "You can't be in my bed."

"What? Afraid I'll christen it with you?"

"You wouldn't." She gave up on the struggle, turning the overhead light off with an irritated swipe of her hand.

"You're right." He plumped the pillow underneath his head, shoving his fist deep into its recesses.

"Well, we finally agree on something."

He didn't respond until she was almost out the door, closing it behind her. "By the way… earlier in the bathroom?"

"I told you I was sorry about the water." Her head was throbbing from exhaustion, and she didn't have the strength for this game.

"No, not that. When you took my shirt off."

"Oh." She had hoped he'd forgotten.

"Before you moved away… I wasn't going to kiss you."

And this time, she knew he meant it.

_To be continued…_


End file.
